The decision had been made, and it echoed silently through the high halls of Celestia. The gears of fate turned, and now, so did mine. I watched from the divine balcony overlooking the skies of Teyvat. Clouds shifted below me like waves in a sea I had once thought was calm—now I saw the cracks forming beneath the surface.
Khaenri'ah's downfall had begun.
I had sent the first signal—an encoded directive transmitted through the divine channels of authority to each of the Seven Archons. They understood it not as a direct order but as a sign, a convergence of fates. It was subtle, deliberate, and yet final.
Venti would act with regret. Zhongli would act with principle. Makoto would act with duty. Rukkhadevata, wise and thoughtful, would question it but follow. Egeria would dramatize the necessity. Xbalanque would rage against it. And the previous Tsaritsa—she would see it for what it truly was: a calculated move, not divine justice.
I remained silent, unseen. Not even they would know I was behind it directly. It had to seem like destiny.
Whispers of celestial punishment began to reach the outskirts of Khaenri'ah. The skies grew dimmer, the ley lines darker, and anomalies stirred in the once-proud nation. Some began to pray to long-forgotten gods. Others fortified their borders, activating ancient defenses. They were intelligent. They knew. They remembered what happened to civilizations Celestia deemed a threat.
And then, the first rift opened.
Not a portal, not yet. A rift in energy—a scar in the ley lines near the edge of Sumeru. Scholars noticed it first. Forbidden knowledge that bled into their dreams. Some thought it was a sign of divine retribution. Others believed it was simply an environmental imbalance. But I knew it was neither. It was the beginning.
In truth, I had not opened the rift. It opened on its own—Khaenri'ah's reach toward the Abyss had grown impatient, and the Abyss had responded.
I sent silent word to Rukkhadevata through a vision-dream—gentle suggestions embedded in her subconscious. She dispatched a quiet team to investigate. They would not find answers, only shadows. But that was enough. Fear would take root. Rumors would spread.
I watched it all from my sanctum.
The stars themselves seemed to shift uncomfortably, reacting to the disturbance. I knew that the Abyss was not just a force. It was a consciousness. Perhaps even a will. It would notice me soon, if it hadn't already.
What I hadn't told anyone was the deeper reason I was proceeding with the plan.
I had begun to sense something—something below Khaenri'ah. Not just a city, not just knowledge. But a core. A knot in the fabric of reality. Something ancient and unfinished.
Could this be why Phanes acted so drastically? Could this be what he truly feared?
No written records explained it. Not even the divine scripts I inherited. Only instinct guided me now.
As the rift widened over the coming days, the Archons began to mobilize. Slowly, carefully. They did not yet know what they would find. Nor did they realize that their actions had already been predicted centuries ago.
I watched them. I listened to them.
Egeria held a closed trial in Fontaine's Court of Oratrice, speaking in riddles about divine decisions and ancient laws.
Zhongli withdrew into meditation beneath Mt. Hulao, seeking signs in stone.
Makoto stood upon the highest point of Narukami Island, wordless, her eyes scanning the far horizon.
Xbalanque gathered her flameguard in the volcanic valleys of Natlan, preparing for the worst. Her fire burned with anxiety, but her resolve remained unshaken.
The previous Tsaritsa, calm as the frozen lakes of her homeland, sent diplomats cloaked in silver and spies wrapped in silence to observe, to judge, and perhaps to mourn what was to come.
They all felt it.
History was looping.
And yet this time, I was guiding it.
I walked alone in the Celestial Garden that night, beneath starlight that felt colder than usual. I traced my fingers along the edges of the divine inscriptions lining the walls—remnants of Phanes' will, rules older than any Archon.
Did I truly have the right to repeat his cycle? Was I better than him if I chose the same path, even with knowledge he never had? Or was I simply delaying the inevitable in a prettier guise?
But then I remembered what lay beneath Khaenri'ah. That dark core. That gnawing truth in the ley lines. The Abyss was not just invading—it was expanding. Growing. Waiting for a moment of collapse.
This was not just about punishing a nation.
It was containment.
The rift in Sumeru eventually closed, leaving behind a withered crater of energy so twisted that not even Dendro could reclaim it. The Abyss had tested the waters. It would come again.
And next time, it would not be subtle.
Now, all I had to do was wait. Let the world move the way I remembered. Let the players enter the stage. And when the true conflict began, I would be ready.
Because while Teyvat thought it was marching toward its fate...
I was the one turning the page.